The Hour of the Time
by Vincent Hobbes
Published by Hobbes End Publishing, LLC at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Hobbes End Entertainment, LLC
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The future is as harsh as nature.
Harsher even.
Cruel and emotionless.
The future is a cryptic place, where a synthetic voice is on the other end when you dial customer service, and it never understands your words.
DOES NOT COMPUTE and PLEASE REPEAT YOUR REQUEST are common words in the future.
The future is filled with blinking lights and chirping beeps.
Complex highways and colossal buildings.
One hundred foot billboards line the roads, and everything around you is a commercial for a product you do not need.
And somewhere along the line, we lost the human spirit; self-reliance and self-worth disappeared.
Because the future is a place where government dictates happiness, and society mandates perception.
Welcome. I hope you enjoy yourself.
Charlie was running late. He hated being late. It was one of his biggest quirks. It was the highway again—the High 12. It was jammed tight like sheep, and his drive took longer than expected.
“Shit,” he mumbled. Charlie hated the city.
He beeped his horn and cursed his way through morning traffic, arriving at 8:47 am.
Thirteen minutes early.
Charlie peered at his summons again.
9:00 am, it read.
He did not want to be late.
As the rabbit would say, I’m late, I’m late—for a very important date!
Charlie hated being late, and right now, he was behind schedule. He was always early. It was a trait of his. Always first at the office, always first at parties—when he was invited, of course. Charlie always arrived thirty minutes early to the movies, and two hours at the airport.
This day was no different.
More important, actually.
The most important day of Charlie’s life.
The parking lot was full. Charlie spat more obscenities under his breath.
“It’s because they’re all on time. Everybody but me!” he muttered.
He cursed again, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.
It would’ve been comical had someone seen his outburst, but as luck would have it, nobody did.
Why?
Charlie was a frail guy—an unintimidating character. He was thirty, yet still got carded for cigarettes. His boyish features might have been bad enough, but his 5’1” frame made it even worse for him. To add insult to injury, his hair was thinning, and the way he kept it brushed back, his pimply forehead awkwardly stood out. Charlie was a mess. He’d never been inside a woman, never ridden a motorcycle. Never shot a gun. His life was six days a week to the office, one day off. Charlie didn’t mind if his boss gave him work to do. He wanted to do his part. Everyone should do his or her part. But what Charlie never understood was that his small features, his nasally voice, his obsessive ways—these things usually made for a good laugh at his expense, and this moment was no different.
“Shit shit shit!” he exclaimed.
“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he muttered to himself.
“I don’t have to impress anyone,” he grumbled. “I’m here, and I’m on time.”
He pounded the steering wheel one last time.
“There has to be a damn spot somewhere.”
Charlie looked at his watch.
Double-checked it with the car clock.
8:50 am.
“Ten minutes. Shit on a stick!”
Charlie tore around the corner, finally spotting an open space.
“’Bout fucking time.”
He slammed the car in park and jumped out, racing to the building.
Halfway there, he had to turn back. He forgot his summons.”
“Shit shit shit shit shit,” he said with every step.
He tried it again, nearly sprinting across the parking lot. Charlie’s little legs churned as fast as they could on the hot asphalt.
He reached the building and pulled at the door.
8:52 am.
Charlie was out of breath when he entered. He hair was tussled, so he combed it back hastily with his fingers. He pulled the door and stepped inside, sighing a breath of relief he had not stopped to use the restroom along the way.
“Without a moment to spare,” he mumbled.
This was an important day for Charlie. He had received his summons two weeks earlier in the mail. He had made sure to call the confirmation number, doing so twice just to make sure. The last thing he wanted was to miss his appointment. This appointment.
There were severe penalties for missing a summons, and for being late.
But he was finally here. He trotted to the front desk. Luck was on his side, and no one else was in line. Charlie hurried to the nearest counter.
A glass partition divided them. Charlie was surprised to see a woman behind the counter. An actual human! Normally, a robot would have sufficed, but Charlie figured a place like this would want to use a human.
It made sense.
Despite our flaws, humans were still proven to be more accurate than an automated service machine.
A robot was fine for taking orders at a fast food restaurant, but this was much too important.
The most important day of his life.
“H . . . hello,” said Charlie, out of breath.
The woman looked at him, her eyes vacant.
“Is this your hour?” she asked.
“Yes it is,” said Charlie, beaming.
“Name?” she asked without emotion.
“Charlie Hoag.”
“Spell it.”
“H-o-a-g.”
“Ident number?”
“Six-two-oh-seven-two-eight-one.”
“District?”
“Fourteen.”
“Do you have your summons?”
Charlie reached deep into his pocket. For an instant, he couldn’t find it. He nearly panicked, then realized it was in his front pocket. He sighed heavily, pulling it out and handing it through the small opening at the bottom of the plexi-glass.
Clickity-click of the keyboard.
Tickity-tock of the clock.
Charlie waited anxiously as the woman verified his identity and entered his information.
He looked at his watch again.
8:55 am.
Charlie paced in place, nervously shifting his hands in front of him. He cracked his knuckles twice and brushed his hair back again. He was worried he had missed his time. He was worried, because Charlie had heard the penalties were harsh. He hated that he wasn’t early. He knew better than that. Charlie hated being late. He was always early.
“I woulda arrived sooner, but the 12 was busy,” he said nervously to the woman. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
She said nothing, still typing.
Charlie looked at his watch again.
8:56 am.
“I’m never late,” he added. “I always like being early. Especially to something as important as this.” Charlie smiled.
She did not return the gesture.
He looked up at the clock behind her.
It clicked.
8:57 am.
“I just want to confirm that I’ll get recorded as being on time. Technically, I’m three minutes early,” he added with a fake, nervous chuckle.
The woman pushed a button and printed a slip of paper. She handed it, along with his ID card, back to Charlie.
“Be sure to have your ID ready again. They’ll take it from you for final processing. Don’t forget to pick it up after you’re done.”
“You mean I made it on time?”
“Yes.”
“Great. That’s juuust great. Whew! I thought I was late.”
“Down the hall,” she said, her voice uncaring.
“Oh, of course. Yes ma’am,” he replied, nodding his head. Before turning, Charlie looked down at his ticket. He added, “Does it say anywhere about the time? I just want to make sure I don’t get penalized for being late. I was three minutes early,” he repeated. “I just want to make a note of it. I hear the penalties are—”
“The time is printed on your ticket,” she said dryly.
“Oh, I see it. Good, it says 8:57 am. Usually, I’m always early, but today—”
“Down the hall,” interrupted the woman, her voice flat and monotone. “Last door on the right.”
Charlie passed down the corridor. It seemed to take forever, even though he walked fast.
The walls were white, and the floor was shiny. Waxed daily, no doubt.
The hallways smelled of disinfectant—a clinical feel to the whole thing.
Overhead were fluorescent lights illuminating the hallway. They were bright and hurt Charlie’s eyes.
He heard a soft tune overhead. No words, but the jingle was familiar.
Charlie walked the stretch, wondering why the need for such a long hallway. He noticed there were no doors.
Now that didn’t make sense.
Only one room at the end of the hall.
Nothing hung on the walls, but that didn’t matter to Charlie. The lack of color, the lack of life didn’t bother Charlie. He was a product of the future—the new society; his own apartment was a simple mix of cinderblock and steel. Nothing fancy. Nothing special. Thus, the emptiness of the hall paled in comparison to the emptiness in Charlie’s life.
It actually made him feel welcomed.
Still, he wondered—why the long walk?
His footsteps pattered.
On and on. Charlie checked his watch a dozen times. A hundred times. A thousand times.
It didn’t matter, though. His ticket was stamped. He was technically on time.
Charlie hated being late.
—And he heard the penalty was harsh.
He finally reached the door at the end of the hall. He jiggled the handle, and let himself in.
Another counter.
Another clerk.
This time, it was a man.
Charlie was still worried he might get in trouble for being late, but the man said nothing of it. He took Charlie’s ticket and scanned it, finally handing it back.
“Name?”
“Charlie Hoag.”
“Spell it.”
And the process repeated itself, because repetition is part of the future.
Charlie finally entered. The room was massive, a wide auditorium. Hundreds waited.
Hundreds like him.
The lucky ones.
They clustered in small groups.
Others remained alone.
Some sat, some stood.
Charlie walked the outskirts, finally leaning against the back wall.
He watched as some people laughed.
While others sang.
A few even cried.
He didn’t understand that.
Charlie remained alone. He was always alone. Servitude meant sacrifice, and Charlie was most happy to be here. He had thought of this day for many years. He had hoped for it. The day he received his summons in the mail, Charlie knew it was the best day of his life.
Then again, Charlie had never known a woman.
“Ah, hello,” he said to a teenager next to him. He was nervous, and hoped to make conversation.
“Hey,” muttered the kid, his head looking down.
“My name’s Charlie.”
“Okay,” the kid replied, uninterested.
“How long you been waiting?”
The youth turned his head, looking up at Charlie.
“I dunno. Awhile, I guess.”
Charlie nodded his head. “I just got here.”
A voice chimed overhead.
“Six-two-five-five-seven-eight-six.”
The teenager looked at his ticket.
“What’s that mean?”
“They’re ident numbers,” said the kid with a sigh.
“Oh, of course.” Charlie mumbled the numbers under his breath. “Not me.”
“Hm,” replied the teenager.
“There’s a lot of people here.”
“Yup.”
“I hope I get called soon.”
The teenager tilted his head up, looking at Charlie strangely.
“I hope I do. I want to do my part, ya know?”
“Okay,” was the response. The kid looked back to the ground.
“I thought I was going to be late,” added Charlie, as if the kid cared at all. “I took the 12. I knew I shouldn’t have, especially this time of day.”
And on and on, Charlie blabbed.
“Six-four-nine-five-six-two-six.”
“. . . he nearly sideswiped me, I tell ya.”
“Six-four-seven-six-two-six-one.”
“. . . I swear, there’s never a cop around when you need one,” Charlie looked at his ticket, then continued, “So anyways, he cut across two lanes . . .”
The teenager shifted.
Another number was called out. A synthetic voice. An uncaring voice.
The teenager shifted, looking at his ticket.
“That you?” Charlie asked.
“Nah,” said the kid. Before Charlie could speak once more, the teenager jammed his earphones in his ears, turned, and walked away.
Charlie didn’t protest. He was accustomed to such things.
A few minutes passed.
A few minutes more.
In a room packed full of people, Charlie was alone.
As he waited, he thought of his apartment, wondering if he had turned off all the lights.
Did I feed the cat?
Did I lock the front door?
A woman neared him, leaning her back against the wall. She looked pale, as if she might faint. She was clutching her ticket tight in her hand, staring ahead at the other people waiting. She was solemn, and didn’t want to talk.
“Hello,” said Charlie, his voice friendly.
“Hi,” she mumbled.
“Are you late? I think it’s past nine.”
She looked at her ticket. “I’m 9:30.”
“Oh,” he replied. Not a few minutes passed before he began chattering again.
“. . . I don’t know why a cop is never around when you see one. Anyway, that’s why I was late. I just hate being late.”
More numbers called overhead.
People came.
People went.
“Seven-nine-seven-one-six-two-one”
The woman turned to Charlie. She hadn’t spoken the entire time.
“That’s me,” she mumbled. “It’s my time.”
He tried to fake a smile, but this pissed him off. This woman—this 9:30, was called ahead of him.
“I just don’t understand. Technically, I wasn’t late. My ticket even proves that.”
“It’s my time,” repeated the woman. She seemed sad, but Charlie took no notice. She crunched her ticket, shook her head twice, and disappeared into the crowd of people, toward the front of the room.
“Did they skip me?”
“Perhaps I should ask.”
“Can they skip people?”
Charlie saw a middle-aged man nearby. He casually walked to the man’s side, and stood next to him for a minute, before asking, “Excuse me, sir. Can someone not be picked?”
“Huh?”
“Everyone’s supposed to be picked, right?”
“I guess.”
“It’s just . . . they haven’t called my number yet. That woman—the 9:30—she was called before me.”
“Okay,” the man muttered.
“I was supposed to be here at 9:00. I was running a bit late, but I was on time. Three minutes early, actually.”
“No clue, buddy,” the man said. “I’m sure you’ll get called soon.”
“I really hope so,” said Charlie, excited. “This is a special day for me. For all of us,” he added, proudly.
But the man said nothing. A few minutes later and his number was called.
Tick tock of the clock.
The synthetic voice kept a steady pace.
Some came. More went.
10:01 am.
“Something isn’t right,” said Charlie to the woman. She was older, looked like someone’s grandmother. “I’ve been here an hour. That last guy—he was only here for fifteen minutes.”
“I see, dear. My, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said, attempting to calm Charlie’s incessant chatter.
“I don’t mean to create a fuss, I’m just wondering if I should ask someone. Maybe they skipped me. Maybe they thought I was late. Aren’t there penalties for that?”
“Oh, I really don’t know.”
“I always heard there were. I was on time, so I shouldn’t have any penalties. See,” he said, holding up his ticket.
“Yes. It says 8:57 am.”
“Three minutes early,” Charlie nodded.
The old woman was polite. She listened to Charlie intently. She answered his questions. She calmed him.
Finally, he asked, “Where do we go when they call us?”
“I think there’s a door. Up there,” she said, pointing. “They seem to be going there.”
Charlie stood on his tip-toes, but he was a little guy, and couldn’t really see.
“When they call my number, I need to know where to go. How come they didn’t explain this to us?”
“I don’t know, dear. Hush now, don’t worry about such things.”
“I can’t help myself. I want to do right. I want to be early. I’d hate to not know where to go when they call my number.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she answered with a smile.
10:39 am.
The old woman was called. She did not hesitate, she did not stall. The woman disappeared into the crowd and Charlie hardly noticed.
“There has to be some mistake. There has to be.”
10:44 am.
“Six-two-oh-seven-two-eight-one.”
“That’s me!” Charlie exclaimed. “That’s my number.”
Nobody around him took notice.
Charlie mumbled the same identity number he had since childhood, just to make sure. He didn’t want to be wrong, so he checked it twice. More so, Charlie definitely didn’t want to be late. He pulled from the wall and entered the crowd. He headed to where he thought he was supposed to go. He had a hard time seeing, because he was so short, but Charlie pushed through regardless.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon. I have to get through.”
“They called my number.”
“They picked me.”
He walked through groups of people.
Some standing, some sitting.
A few laughed.
Others sang.
Some cried.
He didn’t understand that.
This was an important day.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon. I have to get through.”
The most important day of his life.
“They called my number.”
“They picked me.”
There was a door. Another clerk stood at a counter, but no partition separated them. Not this time. Another woman, this one attractive. A beaming smile appeared on her face as he pushed through the last line of waiting people.
“Hello,” said Charlie.
“Six-two-oh-seven-two-eight-one?” she asked.
“That’s me,” beamed Charlie. “Did I make it on time?”
“You sure did,” said the woman. Her eyes were wide, focused on him. Her smile radiated her face. Her voice was soft—sensual.
“Do you have your ticket?” she asked.
“I do,” he said, flirting slightly. He dug in his pocket, and couldn’t find it.
“What the hell?”
“Excuse me, sir?” She pointed to his front pocket.
“Oh, of course,” he said with a laugh. He handed it to her. The woman scanned it, and placed it in a bin.
“ID?”
He handed it over.
She placed it in another bin.
“The woman—”
“Yes?” asked the woman, tilting her head. This time, her smile seemed different.
Fake.
Plastic.
“The woman at the entrance said I’d get my ID back after. I was just making sure that’s right.”
“Oh, yes,” said the woman, holding the same smile. This time it seemed different.
Deformed.
“We’re finished,” she said in a pleasant voice. “Just go into that room and take a seat.”
“In there?” he pointed.
“In there,” she repeated.
“Wow, I finally made it,” he stammered. “I was hoping I wasn’t late . . .”
“You are right on time,” she interrupted.
The room was circular. Cold and empty.
A chair was in the middle of the room.
His footsteps echoed.
Charlie sat down, making himself comfortable.
He tried to relax.
“At least I was on time,” he whispered.
A blissful look crept across his face.
Charlie Hoag had been on time.
And he looked at his watch one more.
And at 10:59 am, the door shut and the gas entered the room.
At 11:03 am, Charlie’s lungs filled.
Three minutes later, his heart stopped.
And at 11:05 am, Charlie Hoag’s last thought flashed in his mind.
At least I was on time.
If you enjoyed this story, visit www.TheEndlands.com for more information.